Generations
by The Goddamn Duck
Summary: A new generation of fighters is already arising. A new storm on the horizon... This is the story of Mel Masters, Kasugano Sakura, and the other members of this new generation. Introductory chapter up.


STREET FIGHTER: GENERATIONS

By The Goddamn Duck

(Author's note: I do not own any of the characters in this chapter, nor do I profit from this work in any way. Words in brackets [[like this]] are translated from another language, usually Russian. Dates are fudged, and based on no particular research on my part.)

Chapter One Which is Mostly Regarding Origins and Catching Up

October, 2005

The eastern Ural mountains were not the sort of place where people went on holiday, unless they were anthropologists or linguists who were curious about the locals. Neither were they the sort of place where people went walking alone, especially in the frigid October air. And yet, along a small, well-worn dirt path, a small figure in a heavy, fur-lined overcoat trudged on, towards a low-slung building in the distance, an aluminum-walled garage - or warehouse, perhaps - on the edge of a small farm.

Inside, the SAMBO master and pro-wrestler known as the Red Cyclone, Zangief, was staring at the mirror. He let out a long breath, and then clutched the spare tire that had been growing about his midsection for the last few months.

"[[Too many pierogis...]]" he muttered. There was no way around it - he hadn't let up on his training regimen any. Quite the opposite - he'd been training harder than ever in the last few months, if only because there was nothing else to do. And yet, he couldn't keep up with his slowing metabolism. The man-mountain let out a muted sigh, which came off far louder than it should have in the warehouse-gym. "[[I'm finally starting to get old. Heh.]]" A slow smile crept across his face. Russia wouldn't have its invincible proletariat-hero much longer - maybe another good year, and then he'd have to retire. Well, training others was hardly retiring, but... the ring... at least he had one last championship under his belt. No regrets there...

The sound of the door sliding open snapped him out of his reverie. "[[Hey! I'm not seeing any...]]" He trailed off. No, he was known as a recluse around here - ever since he had moved off into the mountains to avoid all the fans that kept seeking him out, to say nothing of the less serious challengers that he was tired of dispatching.

"[[It's been a while, old friend.]]" The blonde woman pulled back her hood, shaking the snow off of it.

"[[Miss White.]]" The russian nodded, his smile shrinking a bit. "[[To what do I owe the pleasure?]]"

"[[...Keith is dead.]]" The silence was deafening as Zangief searched for words.

"[[The Colonel?]]"

"[[Yes.]]" She shed her coat and walked over to the ring, taking a seat on the side. The Russian had been afraid that she'd be wearing her combat clothing beneath the coat, but she was dressed sensibly, in a sweater and heavily lined pants. He let out a breath.

"[[Can... I get you some tea?]]"

"[[Please.]]" She smiled weakly, obviously holding back her tears.

When the truth came out, it came out in a barely-coherent cascade. A terrorrist attack. Delta Red was mostly gone. The two surviving members had been sent away for their own protection. She was on the verge of sobbing before she drowned it in her tea. Strong, Russian tea. Bitter, harder to drink than black coffee... but as it was, she was very fond of black coffee. The tea was surprisingly welcome.

"[[So... you thought that this place would be safe?]]" Zangief nodded his assent. "[[Safe is one of the few things I can guarantee here.]]"

"[[It's more than that, Victor. I know you're a good man. You're one of the only friends I have in this world.]]" Her eyes were red, and she sniffled a little as she spoke.

"[[Ah... Cammy, I don't think you realize...]]"

"[[No, no - nothing like that!]]" She almost giggled, despite herself. "[[After Keith, I... I'm not ready for anything like that. And I know I'm... not exactly your type.]]" The wink was unneccessary, but she threw it in anyway. Russia was not kind to those who prefered the company of their own gender, and the iconic Red Cyclone had done a very good job of hiding it. She was likely one of perhaps five people in the world who had discovered the truth - and one, his mother, was long since dead.

"[[Hah. Alright.]]" He leaned back in the folding chair, sipping his own tea. He was a little flattered. "[[I suppose it won't be so bad having a boarder.]]"

"[[...or two.]]" It took him a moment to notice the hand being held over her midsection.

"Bozhe moi..." He muttered. "[[...am I really that damned oblivious?]]" She was probably a good four or five months along.

"[[It's the sweater, I think.]]"

"[[Don't patronize me! A year ago I would have noticed any change in your body since the last time we fought.]]"

"[[A year ago my outfit would have made any changes quite obvious.]]"

"[[True enough!]]" He laughed, heartily. A shadow passed over his face briefly, a sudden change of mood. "[[You... do know the dangers of your little one living here, yes?]]"

"[[The cold? The wildlife? I think she'll do well.]]" A pause. "[[Or did you mean the danger of her training with you?]]"

"[[A little bit of all three, I think.]]" He let himself smile again. Cammy hopped off the ring, and swept Victor into a hug.

"[[I'll take my chances.]]"

-  
June, 2009

"AGAIN!" Both of the young men dropped down, knees bent, and twisted their wrists behind them, a familiar flow from within and beyond filling their hands. Energy entered them from the air... the earth... from somewhere deep within their souls that could not be explained... and then...

"HADOOOKEN!" Both of the students of the Goutetsu-Ryu Ansatsuken hurled a bolt of pure energy through the air. One, a devastating, tightly-whirling sphere of white-blue energy whistled across the studio, smashing into a heavy bag. The blast scorched the canvas, the bag flying back as if it had been body-slammed. The other began as a taut golden-flamed ball, but quickly exploded outward into a broad wave before dissolving. Sean grunted, punching the ground.

"So close!"

"Remind me again why you're trying to get the classic form down?" The blonde youth next to him cocked his head to the side, and wiped a stream of sweat from running into his eye. "Dude, if I could manage to make mine do that-"

"Because it's unfocused." He shook his head. "Raw."

"So you're a shotgun instead of a revolver!" Mel leaned back, scratching his lip. "At least you're a-"

"Mel, no gun jokes." Ken glared at him, his long-dyed hair now its natural sandy brown, streaked with gray. He was thinner and wearier than he had been in days past; it looked as if time had taken a sledgehammer to him in the last few years. Sean and Mel, however, exuded enough energy to make up for what their master lacked. Sean had grown - a lot. Nearly seven feet of toned, lean muscle, a mane of tight braids worked down the back of his head, nearly to his shoulders. Mel, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Ken at his age - but for the fact that he didn't have to actually dye his hair. And the fact that he kept it trimmed short... always the pragmatist. His son refused to grow his hair long on the basis of it being used against him in a fight!

"Sorry, d... Sensei." He bowed quickly. "One more time?"

"Nah, not today. You're both tired, and frustration is going to be more an obstacle than a motivation in this case." He leaned back, and sipped his tea. How Ryu had gotten him hooked on it was beyond him. "Sean, why don't you go check on the ribs? I think they should be almost done."

"The-" His eyes widened. "Yes, sir!" With a grin he bolted from the studio back to the house proper, where the night's dinner was still in the oven. As soon as he was gone, Ken grunted, slowly moving to your feet.

"One last thing before we go in..."

"Yeah, pop?" Sean was gone, the Master was off his seat, and the tone relaxed.

"How in the hell did you do that with your Hadoken? I've never seen one... compress itself... like that."  
Mel's eyes widened in confusion.

-  
March, 2010 The Emperor of Muay Thai shoveled a forkful of noodles into his mouth. He was getting good at the mongolian barbecue style of cooking - which wasn't hard, since it consisted in his opinion of throwing things on a hot surface and making sure they were seasoned to taste. It had been a good day, one of the best ones he'd had since he...

No. He was not in retirement. He was on a hiatus. He grunted, closing his eye. He would return anew. The world would see the might of Muay Thai from a noble fighter again.

He looked down at the hand that clutched the fork. The hand that trembled slightly, even now, with no tensing of his arm. Sagat shoved the thoughts away, although they came back quickly. He medicated them with a swig of his liquor - whiskey and cola - and another forkful of his meal. The noble fighter would not be him. He knew it all too well. His return would be as a trainer, a mentor... but he would never be able to step into the ring again.

Except once.

"Heh... heh... haHAHAHAHAHA!" He broke into laughter, the raucous, almost mocking tone that his opponents would have known so well. "[[Listen to this... my head... I sound like an old man.]]" He grinned. "[[An old man that has read too many grim philosophies in one night, and drank too little liquor.]]" He polished off his drink, and poured himself a second glass. Fifty-four. That was not so old. He had at least a good decade in him - perhaps two, perhaps three. His grandfather had reached a century in age - surely he could come close to that.

Sagat's small house was full of books - in the days since his retirement he had devoted himself to philosophy, to reading the classics. A dogeared copy of "La Divina Commeddia" rested on the other side of the table, next to "The Old Man and the Sea"; beside his bed a half dozen versions of the Ramayana rested, as well as "Phra Aphai Mani". He had read them all, and dozens of others besides those, half of which had returned to the secondhand bookseller.

He wondered which he would curl up with tonight, before he heard something at the door. A thump, followed by a very quiet knock. Rolling his eye, Sagat trod over, the massive man filling the frame as he swung it open. Who would be calling this late?

"[[What?]]" Silence... and then a soft snore. Looking down, he saw her. She was... taller. The last time he had seen her, she was a tiny thing, a waif. Now she was older. Stronger. And she smelled of rum. He bent down, picking her up - completely drunk. She would take his bed - he had the large chair in the front room.

The ratty, well-worn gi jacket that she had been wrapped in was left; the note tucked into the collar was not. It stuck out too conspicuously to be missed.

"Kusa,

I apologize for leaving her here in this state; she was eager to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. She's grown too much for me to handle - I have taught her everything. She absorbs the techniques - this was why she was able to make her own version of the style before. She knew how to do it as I did, but her own forms were just more comfortable for her!

She is still learning... but I have no more to teach her. I could think of no one who would be better suited to complete her education, to take her style and merge it with a proper form - a form that deserves to be remembered, instead of my dying form.

You know how to reach me if she becomes a burden, but I think she will grow on you. Give her my apologies for leaving so quickly - she knows my methods, so she shouldn't take it too badly."

The note was unsigned, and the penmanship was sloppy - he was in a hurry. But his message was clear. The two men knew each other's hearts well, as only those who had been enemies for a long time could.

He sprawled back in his chair and wondered how on earth he would be able to teach Kusagano Sakura the first thing about proper Muay Thai... well... maybe she had mellowed a bit. She was just a schoolgirl before. At twenty-one... yes, she should have a bit of... restraint...

The thought went out the window as he turned the note over.

"PS - two Scorpions, three Hemingway Daquiris, and forty-two beer shots, plus whatever she had when I was in the bathroom."

His student could outdrink him. This was not a good sign. 


End file.
